Because I love him
by HerScarletEyes
Summary: He curled himself around his precious violin and let the last tear fall from his eyes. But it wasn't a sad tear like all of its cousins had been, no it was a happy tear made of pure happiness and acceptance. Implied JohnLock


_**Okay I am so so so so soso so so so sorry for not updating our stories or even posting anything. We've been on tight schedules and I assure you that Amy is working on the next chapter to CrimsonRivers now. She promised me. And I'm working on Of Kitsune and Veela now also. So since I was bored in English class and had all my work done I thought I'd write a one-shot on Sherlock. Now please do kill me for writing this, I'm such a horrible person. Don't write forever and then when I do I give you a sad story…..sorry…but any ways! ENJOY!**_

Jawn&Sherwock Jawn&Sherwock Jawn&Sherwock Jawn&Sherwock Jawn&Sherwock

It had been a year since Sherlock's death. A year, four months, 3 weeks, 15 hours, 57 minutes and 48 seconds since his best friend plummeted to his death right in front of him, unable to do anything but watch from afar helplessly. He'd spent hours in St. Bart waiting room with half of Scotland Yard, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson waiting to hear the news that we all dreaded. A year, four months, 3 weeks, 15 hours, 58 minutes and 14 seconds since everything became lost to his mind.

The first couple of months he was angry, sad, confused, and hopeful. He went to his grave every day, talked to him, read him case files and chanted the same thing over and over again just before he left. Just don't be dead, he'd say. But eventually he realized Sherlock was never coming back and he lost all hope, and even stopped visiting his grave. He barely left the flat anymore, except to buy more alcohol and tea. He'd become just like Harry, but that thought didn't bother him like it should have. He knew Mrs. Hudson was worried but he couldn't bring himself to truly care anymore either.

Every night he'd sit in his chair in front of the fireplace drinking himself into a stupor while clutching Sherlock's violin to his chest, only to fall into nightmares about Sherlock's death. Sherlock blaming him for not catching him, telling him it was his entire fault he was dead. He'd jolt awake in the middle of the nigh only to crawl to Sherlock's bed and pass out there. A year, 4 months, 3 weeks, 9 days, 16 hours, 5 minutes and 38 seconds that he regretted never telling Sherlock how much he loved him, regretted never pulling him in for a kiss, a hug or a touch. He regretted denying to being his partner in more than one way. But tonight he was going to make it all up to him. Every single damn thing.

Mrs. Hudson was visiting Mrs. Turner so he knew she wouldn't be back for a while. Silently so as not to disturb Sherlock's skull, his only friend anymore, he went to his bedroom and collected all the different kinds of pills in the cabinet, put them into a small cup and sat them on Sherlock's bed. He gathered that damn violin, a pen and paper and wrote his last goodbyes and farewells. It wasn't as dramatic as Sherlock's but it would do.

He walked back to his never-had-been lovers bed and lay down, curling the blankets around him, smelling the tiniest bit of Sherlock. He never washed them, ever. He took the cup of pills and swallowed every last one down with strong whiskey one by one until he felt his eyelids going heavy and his stomach felt on fire. It burned but it was a pleasant burn. He curled himself around his precious violin and let the last tear fall from his eyes. But it wasn't a sad tear like all of its cousins had been, no it was a happy tear made of pure happiness and acceptance. And as it fell down he smiled a true smile for the first time in 1 year, 4 months, 3 weeks, 9 days, 16 hours, 8 minutes and 37 seconds. And as he breathed his last breath and closed his eyes he felt as though Sherlock was there holding and guiding him and that was all that mattered, because Sherlock was his precious violin and he was finally going to see him again at last.

And that was how Mrs. Hudson found John Watson, curled up in Sherlock's bed clutching his violin, leaving enough space for another right next to him. And the stand next to him was a half-bottle of whiskey, an empty cup and a note. She walked over to the note and picked it up, and this is what it read:

Dear whoever is reading this,

I have only one thing to say, because I love him

And I always will.

With love and happiness

John Watson


End file.
